The whisper of water
The water was freezing. Thirty degrees below zero.
Completely naked, I plunged into the hole I had previously made in the ice that
had formed on the surface of the lake. What I least expected was to find myself
in those waters, under the thick layer of ice, a wooden chest attached to a
chain that reached to the bottom, or so I supposed, because the chain was lost
in the icy waters when I tried to follow it with my eyes. The chest was the
size of a shoebox, and it was luxuriously carved and hermetically sealed. I
tried to help myself with the chain, but soon discovered that I couldn't get to
the other end. I had to go upstairs to breathe. I ascended to the surface, and
as I entered those waters again, there was no trace of the chest or the chain.
Annoyed, I tried to descend through vertical in which I supposed the copper had
been and... I did! At the bottom, in the distance, you could see the chest that
was descending quickly. I assumed that it was the chain that was making it move
away at that speed. I knew that the lake was a sacred place for the Indians who
inhabited that region. I remembered that one of the stories told of an Indian
chief whose ashes were enclosed in chest and thrown into the lake.
The water was
whispering through my skin. He told me to come to the surface, he pushed
me, but that chest kept calling me. The chest won. And I couldn't go back to
the surface.
El susurro del agua
El agua estaba helada. Treinta grados bajo cero.
Completamente desnudo, me zambullí en el agujero que había practicado
previamente en el hielo que se había formado en la superficie del lago. Lo que
menos me esperaba era encontrarme en aquellas aguas, debajo de la espesa capa
de hielo, un cofre de madera sujeto a una cadena que llegaba hasta el fondo, o
eso suponía yo, pues la cadena se perdía en las aguas gélidas cuando intentaba
seguirla con la vista. El cofre era del tamaño de una caja de zapatos, y estaba
lujosamente tallado y herméticamente cerrado. Traté de bajar ayudándome de la
cadena pero pronto descubrí que no podría llegar al otro extremo. Tenía que
subir a respirar. Ascendí a la superficie, y al entrar de nuevo en aquellas
aguas, no había ni rastro del cofre ni de la cadena. Contrariado, intenté
descender en la vertical en la que suponía que había estado el cofre y…
¡acerté! Abajo, a lo lejos, se veía el cofre que descendía rápidamente. Supuse
que era la cadena la que hacía que éste se alejara a aquella velocidad. Yo
sabía que el lago era un lugar sagrado para los indios que habitaban aquella
región. Recordé que una de las historias hablaba de un jefe indio cuyas cenizas
fueron encerradas en un cofre y arrojadas al lago.
El agua me susurraba a través de la piel. Me decía que
saliera a la superficie, me empujaba, pero aquel cofre me seguía llamando. Ganó
el cofre. Y ya no pude volver a la superficie.
